


An Instrument in the Hand

by CarakinWonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:23:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarakinWonder/pseuds/CarakinWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a case for the older Holmes brother, John becomes reacquainted with his childhood affinity for music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Instrument in the Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for themanwiththeboxisking on Tumblr 
> 
> Sorry for any errors in linguistics/lingo or if my British landmark aren't quite right. I researched for some things that I was worried about and wanted to know more information about but if anything is still wrong, I apologize.

Sherlock Holmes stood at the window overlooking Baker Street, a perturbed expression covering his features. It was early in the morning, around six or seven o'clock, Sherlock wasn't sure, and the street was quiet. Nothing was moving, everything was still. He lifted his arms like he was moving through water and in one strong movement slid the bow he held in his right hand across the violin he was pressing tight against his chin, dragging out a horrible, screeching note that sounded like the wail of a dying animal.

John Watson walked through the den on his way to the kitchen, moving past Sherlock as quickly as he could manage, wincing at the unpleasant sound that was emanating from the instrument as he went. He had learned not to say anything about Sherlock's bad notes, that only made him play more of them. He yawned as he stepped around the kitchen table. While it was nice splitting the fees for a flat, the other half of that equation wasn't the most pleasant person to live with. He glanced at the clock and estimated, with a frown, that he had received about an hour of sleep before Sherlock had started his disastrous concerto.

John sighed and opened the fridge, peering around for a moment in the hopes that for once there might be something edible to eat, and then closed the door once more. He went back out of the kitchen and grabbed his jacket off of the hook. “Sherlock?” John called over the cacophony that Sherlock was somehow pulling out of the instrument. 

Sherlock paused and turned slightly towards John. “Yes?” He wondered, moving the bow carefully, the notes going instantly from horrid to pleasant, turning into a simple little song that sounded like it was from a movie John knew but couldn't remember. “I was going to go to the store for some groceries. Is there anything that you need?” He wondered, trying his hardest to bite back yet another yawn that ended up leaking out anyway. 

“Tired?” Sherlock wondered, glancing over his shoulder. 

John nodded. “Of course I am. We were at the Yard until four this morning tying up the paperwork for that last case because you had to go and make Lestrade mad about doing it.” He snapped, yawning again into the back of his hand.

Sherlock nodded and turned back to the window. “You can't leave.” He said plainly, using his bow to motion towards John's chair. “Sit down.” 

John narrowed his eyes at him. “What are you talking about? I'm tired and hungry. I'm going to get something to fix both of those situations.” He snapped back at the consulting detective. 

“You can't go, John. Someone's about to come in that door. Someone who thinks he has something important.” He said, tilting his head back. Not a second later there was a knock on the door, a very hard and frustrated sounding knock. John blinked. Sherlock was brilliant, his deductions were always spot on and incredibly simple after they had been pointed out but, for the life of him, John couldn't figure out how Sherlock always so accurately predicted a presence at their door.

“If you'll get that? I can tell he's none too pleased from the noise he's making.” Sherlock said with a flippant gesture of his chin in the direction of the door as he picked at the strings of the violin. John sighed and went to the door, opening it in one sharp tug. Mycroft Holmes stood imposingly in the entrance way. “I can get into this flat on my own if it is such a problem to come answer the door.” The older Holmes brother drawled, moving past John and into the flat to sit in Sherlock's normal chair.

John rolled his eyes and moved towards the kitchen. “Tea, Mycroft?” He questioned. Mycroft waved the hand that was holding his umbrella in a dismissive wave that meant no. “I haven't much time to dwaddle here but thank you, John.” He said as he turned towards his brother, holding out a thick, black folder. “Here you go,” was all he said. 

Sherlock plucked a few more notes out before placing the bow back and playing a concerto John had never heard before in such a way that it sounded like someone half drunk was performing it. “What would like me to do with that?” He questioned over the sound of the music. 

Mycroft sucked in a deep breath, less than five minutes in the flat and already aggravated. John thought that might be a new record. “You know what I'm here for. All the documents you need are in there. Just get it done.” He growled, glaring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but removed the bow from the violin and took the file from his brother, tossing it onto the table next to him. Before it hit the wood he was back to playing. This time the notes were clear and charmingly beautiful and John was able to recognize them as Bach's Largo. It was one that Sherlock played often and after multiple times of asking what it was and Sherlock exasperatedly answering with a jab at his intelligence tacked onto the end, John had finally remembered the name of the piece. Mycroft stared at his brother’s back for a long time before he used his umbrella to lift himself from the armchair. He turned to John and glared down his nose and him. “Make sure he gets it done.” The government official demanded before he swept out the door. 

“And good day to you ,John!” He called up the stairs, the sound of the flat door slamming drifting up moments later. John huffed and walked over to the table, reaching out for the file that was barely hanging onto the edge of the table from where Sherlock had so haphazardly discarded it. He had his fingers around the edge before the tip of a violin bow pinned it down, stopping John from picking it up. 

The army doctor looked up at him, his eyebrow cocked in question. Sherlock shook his head. “Top secret, sorry.” He said, a mischievous lilt to his voice. He removed the violin from his chin and placed it on top of the folder. 

“Go get dressed, John. We're going out.” Sherlock told him moving towards his own bedroom.

“I am dressed.” He said, looking down at himself. He was wearing much the same thing he wore everyday: a pair of jeans, slightly faded, and a shirt with a black and white gingham pattern. No jumper, it wasn't cold enough for that. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, his eyes quickly, almost imperceptibly, moving up and down John's body. “Something nicer. We're going somewhere special today.” He told him with an odd smile, disappearing into his room. 

John stood in the den staring at the frost glass of Sherlock's door. He thought of saying something more but he just shook his head and went to do as he was told. 

~

Sherlock had been right. This was much nicer than the places that they normally ventured to. John had gone to several rundown warehouses, dive bars, and scrounged in the gutters for clues on his companion's behalf but not once had they ended up in front of a flat in Kensington. John did feel under dressed now. He had tried his hardest to “dress nice” as he had been told but next to Sherlock in his well tailored black suit with those fancy patent leather shoes in this fancy pants neighborhood? He would never live up to that. 

“Sherlock? What in the world are we doing here?” John whispered, his voice quiet from the unnerving lack of noise that he was used to hearing on their street, as Sherlock slowly wandered up the steps to the front door of the home. 

“We're here on business.” Sherlock said, shaking the folder he held in one hand and ringing the bell with the other. 

John started to ask “What kind of business?” when the door was opened by a stuffy looking older man dressed like a traditional butler, coattails and all. “Yes?” He grumbled out, like the simple word was such a trouble for him to pronounce. 

“We're here to see Mr. Gritton. Me and my associate are from the Bank of Scotland. There seems to be a slight discrepancy in Mr. Gritton's private banking account and we were sent to sort it instead of bothering someone with such little time on his hands about coming in for such a small thing. Would we be able to see him today?” Sherlock said, adopting a calm, businesslike inflection to his voice. 

The butler moved his eyes from Sherlock to John, running his eyes up and down him and his inadequate clothes. “Bank of Scotland?” He wondered, clicking his tongue. Sherlock glanced over at John and the army doctor could almost see the gears grinding in his head behind his verdigris eyes. 

“Oh, I'm sorry sir. My associate here called me on my day off to come with him on this visit. There are supposed to be two associates present at any exchange with a client and there was no one else available at the office. I was out doing personal business but we didn't want to put this off for any longer so I had to come as I was. I apologize greatly.” John quickly told the butler before their story could fall apart. 

The butler continued glaring at him for a long moment before he nodded and stepped back, holding the door open for them. “You may stay in the den while I go get Mr. Gritton.” The man said, leading them into the aforementioned room. 

John looked around the open and airy flat, feeling horribly out of place in the posh atmosphere. There was a large bank of windows that made up the back wall of the room, a glass door leading out to a wide patio and a luscious, green garden. Everything in the room itself was red and gold and silver, matching in just the right way to look effortless, like the tiny streak of crimson that circled the bottom of the tea cup that sat next to the chair that had the same color deep within it's intricate pattern.

“Sit, please. He will only be a moment.” The butler said, disappearing through a door, his footsteps rhythmic as he moved up a flight of stairs. 

John was afraid to sit on any of the chairs, they all looked perfectly fluffed and horribly unused. He turned to say something about it to Sherlock but he only caught the tail of his jacket swishing through the door that the older gentlemen had just gone through and the cursory call of “Stay here. Don't interfere.” 

John sucked in a deep breath and rolled his eyes, moving around in a quick circle for no reason he could discern. Sherlock had never really told him to stay in one place while he went on without him. He had left him, there was no doubt about that, but it had never been truly on purpose. The good doctor had been in the army and the worse part about being in a war is sitting there waiting in the still and calm for the fight to start. He fidgeted back and forth on his feet until a bang radiated into the den from one of the back rooms.

John cringed, his body instantly kicking into high alert as worry flooded through him, his mind going in a million different directions about what kind of trouble Sherlock could possibly be getting into. He stared at the door waiting from someone to come busting through but nothing happened. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, and turned back towards the bank of windows. As he moved his eyes slide across a plane of shiny black that caught and held the light spilling into the corner in a vice grip. He blinked. It was a piano. 

John moved his eyes down the length of the piano towards the bench that sat in front of it. It was a little more worse for wear than anything else that was in the room, while still being polished to a pristine shine. He thought about it for a moment and decided to sit down. Another bang echoed from the back rooms and the pit of worry growing in John's stomach started to eat at him. Sherlock had told him not to interfere though, so here he would sit. He turned toward the ivory keys of the piano, stretching his hands out as far as he could, just like he had been taught to do when he was younger.

His mother had tried her hardest to have a musical child. She had loved Classical music and yearned for someone who could play it for her. Harry refused to go, skipping out on the very first lesson and every one after that as her mother struggled to convince her to try it out. So, she had tried with John. He had been good, talented, but he had never found any reason as for keeping up with his practices. He hadn't really enjoyed it. He thought it was a waste of time that could be better used outside. But he had liked to make his mother smile. After a while, though, even that wasn't enough to make him keep going. 

Now, as he ran his fingers along the edges of the keys, lightly pushing them down and bringing out a soft, tinkling sound, he kind of wished he had kept up with them. Maybe he could have played a duet with Sherlock sometime. John suddenly laughed, unable to hold it back, at such an absurd thought. John thought for a moment, trying to remember the notes for one of the simpler songs that he had learned. His fingers began to move, really without him thinking about it, and the song lifted up from the belly of the piano and filled the room like a rush of the thick London fog. 

There was another, much louder and harsher bang, but John didn't notice this one. He kept playing, his fingers moving increasingly faster, going from the soft, slow song to one much quicker and sharper. The door to the den flew open and Sherlock walked in, his jacket askew, one of the shoulders hanging off of his own, and sweat shining on his brow. “What are you doing?” Sherlock snapped, as he stalked over to where John was. 

“Playing Chopin's Waltz in C Sharp Minor.” John told him precisely, his fingers never stopping as they moved fluidly over the keys. “What were you doing?” 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and then took the sleeve of his jacket in his slim fingers, pulling it back up onto his shoulder. “Nothing really. Just talking to Mr. Gritton and his butler about what's in here.” He said shaking the black manila folder.

“Those several loud bangs?” John asked, one of his eyebrows arching in question as he lifted himself from the piano bench. 

“They don't matter. I got the information that Mycroft requested.” He held up another folded piece of paper. Sherlock turned towards the door, slipping the paper into the folder and tucking it under his arm. “He'll be a little angry as to how I went about it but he will get over it in the end. I believe that we're both a little out of sorts after our late night. He'll have to understand that.” He said over his shoulder, pushing the door open and going out onto the street. 

“So, we can go home then?” John wondered, following after his companion. Sherlock nodded. “Yes we can. Mycroft can come get this himself.” 

The two moved away from the house, their feet automatically moving them along the path towards Baker Street, Sherlock raising his hand to catch a cab that was drifting idly down the road. “I didn't know you could play the piano.” Sherlock said, folding himself into the backseat of the cab and sliding over to make room for John. “Definitely not that well.”

John raised an eyebrow and chuckled, closing the door with a sharp snap. “The great Sherlock Holmes didn't know something? How extraordinary!” He cried, turning the driver to rattle off the address.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It was very good. One of my favorite pieces.” He said, tapping the folder against his knee in a rhythmic pattern. “Maybe we should get a small piano, a keyboard perhaps. You could possibly play something with me.” He said, looking out the window as he said it. 

John looked at the reflection of Sherlock's gaze in the glass and laughed so loudly and raucously the driver narrowed at eyes at him in the rear view mirror. . “What?” Sherlock snapped, turning back to his partner, a heady glare filling his eyes to the brim, his knuckles turning white as he hands clenched into fists.

John waved his hand in the air. “Oh, nothing, nothing. I just need to get home and get several hours of sleep.” He told him.


End file.
